Monday Monday

Here are some scenes from Sunday. The day started in heavy, gorgeous mist. I probably spent as much time off the trike as on -- just so many grand, magical views to capture.

I made a new friend too. Mind you, the sitch seemed a bit dodgy (doggy? sorry) at first.
I'm on a recumbent trike so this Giant Great Dane (a specific sub-breed don'cha know) was towering over me even as he stood on the ground next to me. It occurred to me,' I might be in trouble here.'  At first, the good boy seemed a wee bit fierce but then he went into slobbery greeting mode. You've just not lived until you've had a huge beast of a dog standing over you, wielding a tongue bigger than a beach towel.

I'm laughing and, mebbe, shrieking 'NO licking, no licking!' as his owner comes out on the porch. He was certainly concerned and called to the dog but then saw that we were having fun.

Later the mist burned off for a brilliant Cerulean skied afternoon. Jen and I motored down to Nantasket for lunch at the Red Parrot and a notional beach walk. Why did our ramble plans burn off with the mist?

CARS!!! and one sweet little Harley. I got all distracted...and shit.

Cherry Red Chevy -- what year is this? '58?



cool paint job. I think Bix, my awesome Smart Car could use some creative paint

 

Wo Ist Das Internet?

For some odd reason, our internet connection has gone missing. 

Possibly it saw a hot set of pixels vamping by and went off in fevered pursuit.

Maybe it's observing a quiet time in honor of Sean -- thoughtful. Very thoughtful, yet wickedly annoying, of it.

Could be, it's gone on MY vaca to Vienna. This very moment it's sitting at Cafe Hawelka snarfing down MY sachertorte and drinking MY Flaker.

Bastid!

Perchance it's gone up to New Hampshire for a bit of hiking (yech) and camping (double plus yech with a side of shudder) in the White Mountains.

Weather permitting, I suppose, it's staking out an early spot in the pumpkin patch in order to be first in line when The Great Pumpkin arrives.

Jen called Comcast yesterday but they can't come out to investigate and, hopefully repair until Monday. Sniff, guess they don't work weekends.

Rotten bastids!

Foraging for Sean

 

Still no sign of that painting of Sean Vigle. It was him, standing in his black leather car coat, looking like such a hard man, on a brilliant cadmium yellow background.

 

Amazingly, in this very small house, there are still more places to hunt.

 

Nonetheless, I’m fixin’ to start a new painting or three of him. First though, I need to run into Utrecht’s for more canvas and large sheets of nubbly, rough watercolor paper.

 

I was trying to recall if there was any particular reason, beyond life’s simple, crazy chaos, that we lost touch.

 

Maybe.

 

His girlfriend at the time, while smart,  pleasant and stunningly beautiful, was the jealous sort. She had no worries from me -- Sean and I were platonic friends and, HELLO, THE Amazing Bob! But I understood. I was wickedly, irrationally jealous back then too. I became a snarling and stupendously neurotic, whirling dervish of lunacy if any girl strayed too close to MY Amazing Bob.

 

So, I stepped back -- stopped calling and writing.

 

Mostly though, our out-of-touchness was a by-product of la vida loca.

 

While foraging yesterday I found more letters and postcards from him. Sean used to send these 3”x5” cards with Xerox copies of funny, interesting bits pasted to the front. When picking up the mail, after a long day of press room toil, I felt like I was finding hip, witty, little exclamation point bouquets.

 

He sent the one, at right, during his LA years.

 

The pics on the contact print were taken during his Brooklyn span.

 

Today, I am so very glad to be a pack rat.



Sean Carl Vigle

Yesterday I started on a Clean and Toss Crap project in my studio. The idea was to get rid of some of the mega ton of paper, pics and paintings that I truly do NOT need to hang onto.

Here’s the prob with that -- as I go through bags and boxes, I find cherished memories. Sure, I bin a bunch but I also find such a huge amount that I want/NEED to keep. More than I expect. A lot more.

There’s the thank you note that Celeste sent The Amazing Bob and I after her first big surgery (she has Nf2 also), my angel Helen’s third grade report card and certificate of outstanding achievement and a pic of TAB from the very beginning of our courtship. I also found a long letter, sent to me by an old friend.

Sean Vigle and I were both very much interested in cars, music and books. Conversations with him about those and so many other things were just a zillion kinds of engaging, inspiring and awesome.

I made a painting or two of him way back then too. One of which stands out in my head like a beacon. Sadly, I’ve not found it in my stacks yet but will keep looking. If it’s gone on walkabout, I can always do another. In fact, I believe I will anyway.

Through his moves from Boston to LA and then Brooklyn, Sean and I stayed in touch with phone calls and snail mail. Then life became smoke and we fell out of contact.

Memories of him randomly popped into my head last September. Facebook, Pinterest and Twitter were searched -- nada. Next, I engaged my fearsome google-fu and found him. Afraid to contact, figuring he'd probably not remember me, I didn't.

Silly me. Even if he had forgotten me (and, honestly now, who could? I make an impression like a rhino falling on a bone china teacup...but in a good way. Right?), I suspect it’s the rare person who doesn’t enjoy a no-strings-attached ‘hello and how the fuck are ya’ from the past.

‘Hey Donna,

Nice talking to you on the ‘pay for correspondence network.’ Makes you wonder about how many basic problems in the world could be solved if long distance phone calls were free. Then again, think of all the additional problems that could occur...

I suppose the main weird incentive to write and call this time is the abundance of Citroën material I have in my collection of books...’

This is the beginning of the letter I found yesterday. No date on it but, I imagine, it’s from the LA years. Maybe. I was/am really into Citroëns (particularly the 2CV) and Minis (the original model, not those fat fucks on the road now). He’d always send me pics from Mini races he’d been to or Citroëns he’d seen in passing

Again I fell into Wistful City and decided ‘this time I will contact Sean.’ I went upstairs, ratcheted up the google-fu and found a link much faster than I’d expected.

He’s gone -- no cause of death given.

I’m in a bit of shock and that feels funny since I’d not seen or been in contact with Sean since his Brooklyn days.

There’s a big ass hole in my heart today.

Reading for the Rattled

 My five fav authors, the ones who draw me in, intrigue and cheer, help me escape even when I’m at my most brain jangled, distracted, discombobulated, blue and/or anxious:

Sherman Alexie, Martin Millar, John Scalzi, Christopher Moore and Carl Hiaasen.

Yeah sure, I'm keen on a shit-ton of other authors but these are my solidly, reliable go-to folk.

Except for Christopher Moore’s last one, Sacré Bleu: A Comedy d’Art, which, based on the description should have been a sure thing/slam dunk for literary escapism.

What’s not to love?

...part mystery, part history (sort of), part love story, and wholly hilarious as it follows a young baker-painter as he joins the dapper Henri Toulouse-Lautrec on a quest to unravel the mystery behind the supposed “suicide” of Vincent van Gogh.

 There’s paint, painters, baked goods (!!!) and mystery.  Maybe I was in more of a mind jangle than usual. I’ll try again.

Meantime, I could reread both Lamb and A Dirty Job (scroll down his site page a teensy bit to see the story synopses) a zillion times over and never get tired of them.

The same is true for Martin Millar’s The Good Fairies of New York and Lonely Werewolf Girl.

I tend not to reread Hiaason’s mysteries. Dunno why -- once seems enough but I’m always looking for new stuff from him.

I see from his website that there’s non-fiction that I’ve completely missed.

These two seem right up my midway:
Paradise Screwed, a collection of his columns from The Miami Herald

Since 1985 Hiaasen has been writing a regular column, which at one time or another has pissed off just about everybody in South Florida, including his own bosses.

and
Team Rodent: How Disney Devours the World

Disney is so good at being good that it manifests an evil; so uniformly efficient and courteous, so dependably clean and conscientious, so unfailingly entertaining that it's unreal, and therefore is an agent of pure wickedness. . . .
Disney isn't in the business of exploiting Nature so much as striving to improve upon it, constantly fine-tuning God's work.

 Now, I imagine I’ve gone on about Sherman Alexie before. His work has everything I want. Lyric beauty, joy, sorrow, confusion, deep emotional resonance, humor, wit, magic, all done with a near Raymond Carver-esque  economy of brushstrokes/words.

I’m reading Blasphemy  now but doling it out VERY slowly so it’ll last. Plus it’s a big ol’ hardcover -- can’t tote it in my pack without getting a backache.

At the top of the pile now is John Scalzi’s latest collection of columns from his blog Whatever,  whose tag line is Taunting the Tauntable since 1998.

an American science fiction author and online writer, and former president of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. He is best known for his Old Man's War series, three novels of which have been nominated for the Hugo Award, and for his blog Whatever, at which he has written daily on a number of topics since 1998.

Old Man’s War isn’t jam packed with humor but the whole series totally grabbed me, pinned me to my chair and caused me to be oblivious to everything around me. ‘Cept Coco.

The Oblivion Express thing being a good and much needed quality often enough.

 The Android's Dream, in particular, is just dead hilarious -- good funny escapism.

"Dirk Moeller didn't know if he could really fart his way into a major diplomatic incident. But he was ready to find out."

Last night I was at 5,000 loose ends, having just finished The Long Earth by Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter (which is the first book in what looks like it'll be a molto interessante series) and was all ‘what to read, what to read?!’

So then, I’m good now. Thanks for listening while I worked this knot out.

Introducing...

Jen and I drove over to MGH after work yesterday to visit with the blindingly exhausted Erin and PJ and meet the charmingly debonair new Sea Street resident. We tapped lightly on their door within the Blake Newborn unit. Just FYI and all, the unit’s pretty damned sweet. It’s all whimsical-but-not-insipid paintings, dimmed versus gruesome bright fluorescent lighting and muted warm earth tones. None of this saccharine pastel pinks and blues or Disney character horseshit.

In any case, we tiptoed in, thinking they might all be sleeping, and found Daddy Donahue rocking his brandy new bairn. Despite weighing in at a monster 9 pounds 3 ounces he’s just this wee, tiny thing.

Even smaller than Coco (who runs a svelte yet solid 12 pounds).

And then Jen and I fell desperately in love. With Patrick. Duh.

The second we saw him our eyes filled with tears (the happy, chock-full-of-cherish kind) and we just had to hold him.

Are all conversations, when in the presence of a newborn, sparked with brill bon mots such as:

'Oh look, he curled up his little hand!'

'He yawned! Did ya see that?'

'Was that a dimple? I think he's got dimples!'

'Check it out -- he just pursed his tiny mouth!'

Yeah, we're not talking Algonquin Roundtable chit chat here. I believe the damned sprogs give off some kind of cosmic ray that makes us all go sappy and twee.

Truly. But that's OK. Totally. Bring it on.

Neither Jen nor I regret our no-birth-zone choices. Well, she had a choice. I had an edict from Dr. O/AKA god -- not that I was especially inclined to voluntarily swell up to Sumo wrestler magnitudes, go through excruciating, horror-show pain or deal with all that nasty projectile vomiting, mind you. Then, of course, there’s the 21+ years of constant worry.

Nope, nein, nada. Jen and I are cat people and fret enough over them as it is. We do make gloriously dandy aunties though.

I found myself scritching Patrick behind his ears, patting his head and tranquilly murmuring 'good boy' to him just as I do with Rocco and Gaston.

Oops. Human not feline here. He didn't seem to mind though and, thank Bast, Patrick's Mummy and Daddy didn't seem to notice.

 

The Return Of

I've got nothing to say but it's OK

Good morning, good morning, good

The Sprog Has Landed!

Yup, the stork finally showed his ugly ass late self. Patrick McMurrer-Donohue is now IN THE HOUSE (ok, they're at MGH still but they're totally rockin' the joint big).

Our husky, healthy bruiser weighed in at 9 pounds 3 ounces, asked for a Porterhouse (rare, thanks), baked potato (and don't be stingy with the sour cream) and milk with a Jami chaser.

Then he fell asleep.

As did the very worn out Erin and PJ!

More info and pics of the new ball den teaghlach tomorrow.

Slainte y'all!

It's Official

Summer’s over.

Erin may not have dropped her sprog yet (which, according to The Amazing Bob, guarantees six more weeks of summer weather) but the calendar’s telling me that it’s time to break out sweaters and socks.

This is my favorite time of year. Everything feels fresh and exciting.

I can take long trike rides and walks without dissolving into a vast pool of funky-ass, stinky sweat.
Family vaca season is over so there are far fewer people on the Pike -- my drives out to Hoosick Falls will be free of traffic jams.
Rest stops/service plazas won't be packed with short folk (kids) all cranked up from long car rides, zooming around like overheated atomic particles, pinballing off poor, tippy strangers sending them crashing, gracelessly of course, to the ground (that's ME!).
The crispness of the morning air excites me -- makes me want to exercise and even think, yet again, about going for a dawn run versus walk.
And I truly love snuggling under that extra quilt at night.

Here are some pics from the weekend walks and trike rides.

Fishermen on the Nut Island Pier with Peddocks Island beyond

Rod Stewart -- Maggie May (live 1979)

Simon and Garfunkel -- Scarborough Fair (live in Central Park)

Procrastinating Patrick

It's 6:30 PM and still no baby. Erin's been in MGH for 2 days now and labor hasn't even begun yet.

We've all lost the Sprog Arrival Betting Pool.

This morning, The Amazing Bob pronounced that if Patrick hadn't show his wee head by noon, there'd be six more weeks of summer.

I'm not packing my shorts and flip flops away or breaking out the flannel sheets.

My sweet Helen sent a list of things that worked for her when her two youngest were being all obstinate (possibly just shy) about making their respective debuts.

Included were:

1) Sweep the cervix.  (where do you get a cervix broom? Do they sell them at Home Depot?)

2) Sadly, mineral oil -- the whole damn bottle. (wow, can the poor future mother get a Jamison chaser for that?)

3) Eggplant. (Eggplant? Really? Grilled? Sauteed? Raw? Mind you, I love eggplant but it can encourage labor? What a great little veggie!)

 The wait continues. Sigh.

The Hill

Fairy tale-like house on the flat of the Hill

A wee magical house for elves

Between my doc visits on Tuesday I took a stroll around Beacon Hill and Back Bay -- concentrations of great wealth and beauty.

Did you know that there used to be a bad side to the Hill? The MGH side versus the Common and Public Garden side was nothing but tiny, junk, sleazoid apartments and rooming houses.

My cousin Carmel lived in one when she was going to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts back in the '60s. All little eight year old me saw, on our one visit to her there, was the grand romance, the glamor and enchantment of being an artist, living in the big city on a tree lined street. Yeah, her room was small and dark with just a single bed/cot and wooden chair but MEIN GOTT the joint fired my imagination up something wild.

I so wanted to be her.

And then I grew up, moved to Boston and found that:

a)  while the apartments on the bad side of the Hill were still miniscule, broke-down, decrepit and dark, the rents for these roach closets were completely unaffordable.


b) I no longer wanted to be Carm.

Converted carriage house

By the time I was 22, she was in her mid 30s -- married with kiddle, living in a big house in a fancy, posh suburb. She counseled me, me who'd just come off the carnival road, to fit into the tiny socially conservative and acceptable box allotted to women in the '50s.

Yeah, sorry. No. Desperately unglaubwürdig.

Hamlet refers to Polonius as a 'tedious old fool' BUT he totally nailed it when he advised Laertes:

carriage houses on the flat of the Hill

'This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."

Daddy gave me the same bit of advice when I was in high school, hopelessly out of step with the norm, trying to hard to fit in. I didn't get it then but, thank the theoretical gods, it finally sunk in.

Sprog Arrival Update

Il bambino is STILL in residence at Grembo di Erin. She's been at MGH since last night -- the very good docs have tried a few different things to no avail. Patrick's holding on tight.

Yeah, the sprog's a boy and his name's Patrick.

I texted Jen that it might help to get Erin outta bed, have her run up and down the 4 or 5 flights, dance a few tarantellas and then, maybe, slam back a few pieces of Time Out's awesome jalapeño spinach pizza.

You know, shake things up a bit.

Luckily no one's paying me any mind.

Big D, Little d

I’ve been deaf for eight or nine years now and I JUST learned this. In referring to a person without hearing, sometimes the word deaf is capitalized and sometimes no.

What’s with the big D/small d deaf thing?

From Deaf Expressions blog:

The concept is pretty simple. The lowercase “d” is used when speaking about a person’s audiological ability to hear. For example, “That woman is deaf in one ear.” It has nothing to do with culture and ways of thinking. It’s simply a way to describe a person’s severe to profound hearing loss.

But then in walks Deaf with a capital “D.” What does that mean? Well, just because a person is deaf (audiologically speaking), does not automatically make her Deaf (culturally speaking). A capital “D” is used to indicate that a person is part of the Deaf community and has grown up in that culture. It tells people that you’re fine with and happy to be audiologically deaf and you are also involved in the Deaf Community.

What is Deaf Culture? From the book For Hearing People Only:

... a social, communal, and creative force of, by, and for Deaf people based on American Sign Language (ASL). It encompasses communication, social protocol, art, entertainment, recreation (e.g., sports, travel, and Deaf clubs), and worship.

What am I? Small d -- reasons limned in in this post.

I’ve read in a few different blog comment sections, where this D/d thing is being discussed, that there are some assumptions and prejudice against both us small ds as well as the big Ds.

Us small ds are other, more culturally hearing than deaf, we’re supposedly not proud of our no audio state and don’t appreciate the wondrous world seen from this aurally quiet place. That may well be true of a lot of Late Deafened Adults. We really ARE culturally hearing even though deaf -- the hearing world's where we've been most of our lives.

I love the sense of pride that the Big D's feel in who they are, not caring or worrying if they hear or not. They are truly correct, there is nothing wrong with them. On the other hand, the little d's have had an experience that we may not have ever had. They have had something gigantic taken from them, their hearing. They feel stripped of something they valued. Who are we to tell them how they should feel. The Big D's won't allow us to tell them how to feel, yet they are telling the little d's how they should feel.

D is stand for Deaf oppressive
d is stand for deaf liberal.

I can’t speak to the big D being all oppressive bit -- I’ve not experienced it.

Too much, in my less than humble opinion, is made of this Big D/small d theoretical divide. There are and will always be jerks of every color, creed, ability, breed and gender who feel the need to be all clique-ish -- separating the world into fab/elite/special/chosen clubs and sad/lesser/inferior/not-our-kind leagues.

In my small d-ness, I do miss music and ease in conversation but I’m not wallowing in this loss. What could ever possibly be the point in that? What a waste of life that would be.

I’ve not ditched the hearing world I lived in for 46 years pre-deafening. Of course not. I’ve been, however, growing, adjusting, learning and gaining an appreciate of my not so new hushed state.

Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.

Loss is nothing else but change, and change is Nature's delight.
-- Marcus Aurelius

They must often change, who would be constant in happiness or wisdom.
-- Confucius

Face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are.
-- Soren Kierkegaard

Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next.
-- Gilda Radner

Imminent Arrival

Erin on the right with an equally preg cousin

Baby Shower on the back porch

Jen’s sister Erin (AKA Saint Erin of the Neck) is mega preggers, which I may have mentioned already, and is now a week overdue. Our running joke is that OF COURSE Erin’s late -- Erin’s always late for everything. One of the things you can count on in this life.

And then we grin madly though our worries about her.

Erin and PJ (husband, dude responsible for Erin’s pregatudeness and most fab IT guy EVA!) will head into Mass General later this morning where her good obstetrician will induce. I feel like that word ought to be preceded by heavy, ominous music but no. Everything is truly OK -- il bambino’s just a mite too comfortable where he’s at and needs a wee nudge to start the journey into this world.

Poor kid. I can totally understand the reticence.

Baby Love -- The Supremes

The Herd: TAB’s POV

Rocco looking practically kittenish

This is The Amazing Bob's take on our outdoor herd.

G&G, about to go toe to toe, resenting the presence of paparazzi

When former pet cats, now strays, get dumped in my neighborhood by lazy parents or annoyed college students, somewhere in the next 24 hours, they hear on the cat grapevine (or catnip stem) that there’s a couple of soft touches over on Wall Street.

Rocco in Sgt. Rock/Bogart pose

When they find their way to the Straying Inn, they are confronted by the pecking order of the resident transients, who set up a barrage of groans, insults, taunts and thinly veiled threats.
 

Gus

Then the cat’s angel appears, acknowledges their existence and disappears back into the house. The felines take up their positions on or around the porch. The newcomer is left to figure it out and take possession of unclaimed space.

Then the Cat’s Angel (AKA: Donna) reappears and, like any experienced waitress, she has a line of cat food (or tuna) filled dishes along the length of her arm. Saying something like ‘Ookay, here we are. Everyone calm down now,’ she places a dish in front of each furry beast. She will name the newcomer after feeding him/her.

The senior member of this gang of exiles is Rocco. He’s an old, grizzled, scarred veteran of about ten years, a tuxedo cat, who has only recently decided that it is easier and more rewarding to let go of his paranoid defenses and allow his fondness for her to show through. Maybe after ten years during which she has never tried to kill and devour him (Ed note: I’m a fuckin’ saint, I tells ya!), has always spoken well of him, spent a fortune on food for him and nursed him back to health when he showed up with his scalp dangling from his skull -- maybe he at last decided to return a bit of her affection.

Miracle of miracles!

Our insecure yet patient Coco

Gaston in mid aria

The second most senior cat is Gaston, a Maine Coon Cat who rose in prominence after B.O.P. (greatest cat we ever met!) was eaten by coyotes one summer night and Trixie got herself adopted by a friend of Jen’s. Anyhow, Gaston came along, announcing his presence with operatic arias of yowling. Donna would go out to the porch patting him, giving him catnip and cat-munchies and quietly but firmly reminding him that he was always welcome but had to check his yowls at the driveway. 

Now, personally, I would have dropkicked him into the middle of last Tuesday (Ed. note *snort* yeah, sure) but she has persisted and Gaston has steadily improved.

Then there’s the newest arrival, Gus. Gus loves to let us know he’s there with a medley of disgustingly cute little mews. The grey/white fleabag has a friendly personality as big as his appetite.

Over the years, Donna has fed nocturnal diners of various sorts: skunks, possums and raccoons among them. None of them were anywhere near as Bogart as our old friend Rocco.
-------------------------------------------
 Ed. last note:
I must add, of late, Coco's been getting jealous of the time I spend with the herd. The minute I come back inside she has to give my hands a thorough sniffing. Afterwards, she insists I hold her, carry her everywhere. When she's not clinging to me like spandex to Shakira's amazing posterior, she's either sitting on TAB's lap or napping on top of the seat back of his office chair while he writes.

The MOST Amazing Bob